Incestuous Cross-Country Shenanigans
by PissedOffEskimo
Summary: Companion pieces to The Funnies that answer many compelling questions - such as, what the hell did happen with Frank the Goat and what exactly does the Great Wendigo Hunt of 1995 have to do with anything? Sam/Dean; Cas/Dean
1. The Conspiracy of Frank

**Summary: **We find out exactly what happened with Jim's goat Frank, meet one of John's transvestite hookers, and Dean wears lime green hot pants for the greater good.

_**Episode 21: Salvation**_  
_**J**ohn: Son of a bitch._  
_**D**ean: What is it?_  
_**J**ohn: I just got a call from Caleb._  
_**D**ean: Is he okay?_  
_**J**ohn: He's fine. Jim Murphy's dead._  
_**S**am: Pastor Jim? How?_  
_**J**ohn: Throat was slashed. He bled out._  
_**D**ean: What about the goat?_  
_**S**am: Oh, bad taste, Dean._  
_**D**ean: What? Dad's the only one that can get friendly with Frank?_  
_**S**am: Oh, man, you too? See, this is why I left. I hate you guys. *gets in the car*_

**Warnings: **Pre-series; Transvestite Hookers; mentions of bestiality; John Winchester's dubious parenting skills; underage cross-dressing; crack!fic

* * *

**The Conspiracy of Frank**

Nothing happened with Frank. Well, mostly nothing. Actually, that depended on which Frank you were talking about.

Frank the Goat, who liked to eat people's pants or Frank the transvestite hooker who usually went by Candy. John hooked up with her whenever they were in town to see Jim. Dean thought she was nice. Sam thought it was weird John felt the need to introduce them to the hooker he paid for sex a couple of times a year. Right now, none of that mattered, though, because Candy had a problem that fell under the category of 'their kind of thing.' Some supernatural something or other was going after local hookers and John had enthusiastically agreed to help.

Dean tried not to think about exactly why he was so enthusiastic.

Sam was eleven so they'd dropped him off at Pastor Jim's with a stack of books so classic Dean was considering it a tragedy. He'd tried to broaden Sam's reading horizons earlier that year. Bought him a stack of porn from the second hand section of a porn store in a town they were passing through and Sam had looked at them with the kind of disgust usually reserved for putting their dad's underwear in the washer on laundry day, dumped them out on the drive in front of their motel, and burned them.

That was the last time Dean tried to help Sam broaden his horizons. Actually, it wasn't, but at the time, Dean was pretty sure it was going to be. He was also pretty sure he was lying to himself, but that was still a few years away.

So, they dropped off Sam and went to meet Candy. She was nice enough, thick blond wig, bright effervescent personality in the form of E-cup falsies spilling out of a neon pink tube top and a purple pleather skirt so tight Dean would have thought it impossible to hide the package he knew was there, except Candy had explained tucking to him the last time they'd been through – complete with a demonstration that had been actually kind of interesting until Dean remembered where that dick had been and now Dean couldn't get that image out of his head, no matter how hard he scrubbed at it.

As they'd approached, Candy waved at them, then made a reassuring gesture to her companions and met John and Dean halfway, all hugs and cheek pats for Dean, leaning down because the heels put her at 6'3. "Look at you! You must have put on at least another inch."

John got a long, appraising look from her, which he returned and Dean tried to pretend his dad wasn't thinking about what Dean knew he was thinking about. There was only so much a fifteen year old should know about his father's sex life.

"John, you're looking well."

"Not bad yourself. New hair?"

"A gentleman always notices."

"I'm no gentlemen."

"Winchester, you naughty boy."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, "Dad, seriously, can't this wait until I'm, like… three states over?"

John chuckled and Candy winked at him and Dean got the feeling he was the butt of a very inappropriate joke. John reached over and ruffled his hair, just a quick run through, because Dean wasn't above cutting the old man for messing up half an hour of work that morning, before getting back to the matter at hand.

"So, you've got my kind of problem?"

Candy nodded back at the girl still waiting back at the corner. "Come on. Glitter saw the whole thing, she can give you the details."

Glitter was way too calm, either that or she'd smoked some really good shit before stepping out that night and Dean was betting, by smell alone, that it was the later.

"Amber took a client into the alley – he gives us all the creeps, but she's young and they always think they're invincible. I followed, because I wanted to make sure she was okay and there were these… dogs. Really big dogs and something in the middle that wasn't a dog, really, but it almost was. Like I thought it was a dog until I realized it had arms."

Dean perked up, "Arms?"

"Yeah, sugar, like human arms and its head looked human too, only when it got up behind her, its jaw just… unhinged sort of and it took most her throat in one bite and the dogs came in and started going at her hands and feet and the guy was just standing there, watching, and I must have screamed, because they looked at me and I ran. Lucky for me, a movie had just let out and the streets were pretty busy, so they didn't follow, because otherwise…"

Glitter stopped with a choked sob as Candy put a consoling arm around her.

John had his notebook out, scratching down key words and outlining a sketch of what she was describing, but he spared her a sympathetic smile before he pressed. "Anything else you can remember? What did the man look like?"

"Normal, I suppose. White, kind of pale, grey hair. He's always wearing a business suit and he's been here once a week for the last month, since the bodies started showing up."

"And they're all…?"

Candy provided the rest, "Necks ripped out, hands and feet missing, not a lot of blood left in the body, not a lot at the crime scenes, either."

They hung around a while longer. John did a sketch of the creature and had Glitter help him make adjustments here and there until he had it more or less accurate. Dean made some notes of his own and let Candy fawn over him, because 6'3 of burly man in a pleather mini skirt or not, it was still flattering.

They headed back to Pastor Jim's, caught a few hours sleep and got up just before noon to go into research mode. Sam was awake before them, because Sam liked to keep 'normal hours' like a 'normal person' whose family wasn't on a first name basis with a transvestite hooker.

John frowned, "Sam, be nice to Candy. She made you cookies last time."

Dean moaned happily, "Oh, man, those were some good cookies. Think I could get more of those?"

"You find out what's killing her friends, I bet she'll make double."

Sam took a book off the kitchen counter and dropped it in front of John, a small stick-it note peaking out from between its yellowed pages. "Don't bother. It's an Adlet, the creature anyway. Vampiric dog-human. The dogs were probably its brothers and sisters, usually the liters are mostly dog, with only one or two hybrid man-dogs. Not sure who the guy is, but the lore says Inuit girls would offer sexual favors to it in exchange for goods. So, maybe he's offering the girls to it for something."

Dean looked at the book, then back at Sam before deciding to state the obvious. "It wasn't exactly having sex with her, Sammy, and she's not exactly a _she_."

"The actual text just translates to their 'favors,' it doesn't specify sexual, that's just the popular theory. Or maybe that's why it ate her. Him. Screw you guys, I'm going back to books on social commentary."

He stomped off and Dean sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, smiling smugly while John scanned the lore Sam had found. "I am so getting cookies."

* * *

They spent the rest of the day researching how to kill it. There really wasn't anything definitive, but rumors centered on the holy trinity of monster killing; beheading, silver, and fire, which, quite frankly, worked on just about everything supernatural.

Sam was on the sofa in the back room, nose in his book and John and Dean were at the table in the kitchen, arguing over how to lure the thing where they needed it. It seemed to be hunting in a five block radius and it would be better to use bait, a young girl – preferably an actually girl – but neither of them were willing to put a civilian at risk.

John thought they should stake out the streets over the next few days and hope they got lucky, Dean thought there had to be a better way, because with five blocks to cover and only two of them, the odds were good they'd miss it at least once and someone else would die.

"Why not use Dean?"

They stopped arguing, both of them leaning over to look at Sam through the archway, where he was still sitting on the sofa.

After a moment, John's eyes slid over to Dean in assessment, even as Dean shook his head, "No. No way!"

Sam kept going, though, heedless of Dean's distress, or probably because of it and because he was a bastard and a traitor. "Last time we were here, Candy said he was as pretty as a girl, didn't she?"

"She did." John really seemed to be considering it and Dean flushed, because the problem was, Sam was right. Candy had said that and a lot more. She'd gone on and on about his eyes and his lashes and his mouth and how with not much work at all, Dean would be prettier then some of the real girls that worked the corners further down East Main Street.

Worse yet, even as he kept shaking his head, Dean knew he was going to do it, because bait was the best way to do this and the only viable bait they had was Dean.

John gave him a sympathetic shrug and Dean slouched with a huff.

"Son of a bitch."

* * *

Not that he was ever admitting it to Sam, but as Dean looked at his own reflection in the closed storefront window, he had to admit, he made a damn pretty girl and it really hadn't taken much. Candy had spent barely five minutes on his face and another ten on getting his hair pulled under a tight cap and trying various wigs before settling on a dirty blonde one that was disturbingly close to his natural hair color.

There had been a few wardrobe changes before Dean agree to a pair of lime green spandex hot pants that sparkled under the street lights, black fishnet thigh highs, a sheer mesh top with a powder blue tube top under and only a minimal amounting of padding to mimic the small breasts of a younger girl.

Candy wanted knee high boots, but after a few attempted high kicks, he'd deemed them too restrictive. However, he'd eventually been forced to agree, because the choices came down to the boots with their kitten heel or the six inch stilettos and while the boots were restrictive, he could barely walk in the stilettos. Besides, John had pointed out while trying not to look at Dean for more then half a second at a time, the boots gave Dean somewhere to hide a weapon, which was a good point.

Candy and Glitter were across the street with a few others, ready to let him know when their mark showed up. John sat in his car half a block away. Dean stood at the corner and tried not to look like a Hunter stalking prey. The first two hours were a bust. The next was, too, but the fourth hour, they hit pay dirty, which thank fucking god, because Dean was getting way too comfortable walking in heels with his balls tucked up into his pelvis.

They were rounding on three in the morning and John had gotten out of the car and propositioned Dean to get him alone in the alley to discuss whether they were maybe doing something wrong. Maybe they needed to consider changing tactics, but Dean maintained that, according to the police reports, all the girls were young and attractive and Dean was both of those things, which had the added benefit of making John take a longer look at Dean before shuddering and walking back out to the car.

Served him right, Dean didn't deserve to be the only one not entirely comfortable with this.

Not that there wasn't a plus side. Considering how many tricks he'd turned down so far and the amount of money they'd offered him for something as simple as sucking cock, Dean figured he had a solid fall-back career if he ever decided to give up Hunting.

Finally, as yet another man in a business suit started down the street in Dean's direction, he looked up and Glitter gave a jerky little nod, Candy moving in to comfort her as Dean slipped his hand up, tucking the too long hair back and tugged on his ear a few times to let John know they had their suspect.

Just as Dean dropped his hand down to his side, the man stopped in front of him, "You selling?"

"You buying?"

The guy looked Dean over thoroughly, probably trying to assess the validity of his gender if Sam's research was even remotely accurate. If he really was after girls someone should have told the guy that this neighborhood wasn't the place to start looking. Ten minutes down East Main Street was where the girls hooked, this side of the tracks was Twinks and Trannys as far as the eye could see.

After a minute, the guy smiled, big and sleazy, just like Glitter had said. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm buying. How much?"

"Sixty bucks and I suck your brains out of your dick."

From the raised eyebrows, that might have been a little forward, but the guy nodded and Dean smiled and focused on the tug of his silver knife against his calf as he followed the target down the street into one of the alleyways. He had a few minutes before John got there, but the way Glitter had described things, it went pretty quick and Dean wasn't willing to risk this by stalling.

He got on his knees in front of the guy immediately and looked up with wide eyes, keeping all attention focused on his mouth by slowly licking his lips while he worked one of his hand into his boot, the other coming to rest on the man's hip and waited. It wasn't ten second before the slide of pebbles behind him was followed by hot breath on his neck and Dean tugged his knife free, stabbing it behind him in what he hoped was the generally vicinity of a neck or some other vital area. Blood gushed over his hand and the outraged cry of something not quite human roared through the alley.

The man scrambled to the side, cursing and slipping into shadow behind the safety of two giant fucking huskies the size of a small car. Dean cursed, dodging the swinging clawed hand of the Adlet, that was at least the same size as the dogs behind it, maybe bigger and John really better hurry the fuck up.

The creatures snarled at him, bent on all fours, sniffing him with flared nostrils from several feet away and then growled deep in its throat, eyes narrowed in anger. Good news, Sam's research was spot on, bad news, the jig was definitely up. Dean shrugged, "Sorry, fido, looks like you're outta luck."

It lunged and Dean rolled, still expecting to feel claws rip into him. Instead, he was greeted by the sound of a high powered rifle blasting its way through the alley and he looked up to see John at the open end of the street, re-adjusting the rifle on his shoulder.

The next bullet hit the thing square in the head and it went down, claw twitching. In a perfect world, Dean would have cut its head off right then to be sure, but in a perfect world he wouldn't be fighting a pack of monstrous dogs in kitten heels and a wig.

At the other end of the alley, the dogs loomed closer, one sniffing its maybe-probably-please-be-dead brother, while the other stalked closer to Dean, who was backing slowly towards John, keeping his eyes trained on the threat.

"Dad, you got a machete in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

"I'm always happy to see you, son." Dean caught the machete that slid along the ground to him and tucked the smaller knife back in his boot, letting himself stand to his full height plus one inch.

The other dog had finished assessing its pack mate and from the way it laid its ears back against its head and vibrated with the force of its growl, Dean was pretty sure the assessment was either dead or close enough not to be an immediate threat. One dog went for John, the other for Dean, who stood his ground, machete raised. He ducked at the last second, swiveled as the thing skidded along the ground where it landed and slammed into the side of the building, momentarily stunned.

He took the opportunity to bring the machete down, putting everything he had into taking the things head off in one swipe. Somewhere in there, he vaguely registered shots being fired and looked over to see John taking the other dog's head off for good measure, before moving onto the Adlet, who'd stopped twitching, but better safe then sorry.

Immediate threats taken care of, they turned their attention to the cowering man at the back of the alley. Dean looked at John and smiled grimly, "You want to take this one, or should I?"

John looked at Dean with a concerned frown, "Is it personal?"

"Yeah, no. He didn't even make it to first base."

John shouldered his rifle and nodded, "Have fun."

"Hey, Dad!" John stopped, half turning and Dean grinned, because he'd wanted to do this for hours. "Do these shorts make my ass look big?"

John's eyes moved down before he could stop them and Dean chuckled at the shudder that ran through his dad. "Very funny, I'll be with Candy. Don't come back to the car for a couple of hours at least."

Dean's cry of, "Oh, man, come on, not in the car!" chased John out of the alley.

Alone, Dean turned to the man and his smile slowly stretched back over his face. This side of town, a rifle firing would have drawn attention, but the odds were good no one was calling the cops on it. Even if they did, the response time around here was thirty minutes minimum.

"Hey, scumbag." Dean stepped forward, dropped to a crouch less then a foot away, "Mind if I call you scumbag?"

The guy pushed his shiny dress shoes into the gravel, pushing back into the fence behind him.

"Here's how this is gonna work. I'm gonna ask you some questions, if I don't like what I hear, you're gonna scream." Actually, four dead hookers fed to those things meant he was gonna scream either way.

Sometimes, Dean really loved his job.

* * *

It was nearly six before they finally made it back to Jim's church.

Dean had untucked and ditched the wig, but since his clothes were in the Impala, he hadn't had a chance to change. It got him free pie at the all night diner, though, because the guy who served him thought he was just 'too cute.'

The Impala smelled like sex and Dean rolled the windows down and glared at John the entire drive. On the plus side, Candy had indeed made them cookies and he consoled himself by eating five of them while the worst of the smell receded.

Jim had coffee ready when they came in. Dean had shrugged on his leather jacket over the mesh shirt to give himself the illusion of modesty and he considered going upstairs to change, but decided caffeine was way more important than his dignity at this point.

He leaned against the counter while John gave Jim the run down on the Adlet and after, Jim nodded. "I'm just glad it's over. How is Frank, by the way?"

On Sundays Candy was just Frank and he attended Jim's church. He helped with bake sales and fund raisers and organized member meetings. "Frank's good."

Dean chuckled, "Yeah, Frank's _good_."

"Dean…"

"No, really, Dad and Frank are like this." He twined his fingers together and used the hand to smack an imaginary ass in front of him.

John ignored him in favor of drinking his coffee. Jim raised his eyebrows, more at Dean's lewd display then what John and Frank might have been up to. "Dean, that's hardly an appropriate way to talk about your father."

"I dressed in spandex and took out an Adlet's mutt in heels and a padded bra. If I want to poke fun at Dad for getting frisky with Frank, I am well within my rights."

None of them had heard Sam coming down the stairs, but it was hard to miss his cry of, "Frank?! The goat?!"

Dean considered correcting him. For like two whole seconds. John and Jim were too stunned by the implication to say anything right away and Dean took the opportunity. "What? I didn't hear Frank complaining."

John looked sharply at Dean, who grinned into his mug as Sam looked at John in disgust, then over at Dean, down and back up – taking in the boots, the fishnets, the hot pants, the exposed midriff, the padded little blue tube top – and groaned. "It's too early for this shit. I'm going back to bed." And turned around to trudge up the stairs.

No one in the kitchen moved until the bedroom door had slammed shut and Dean tried not to laugh. He really did, but John was shaking his head fondly and Jim was sighing, because he'd known them long enough to know when not to interfere in Winchester affairs. Sam and Dean's prank wars were legendary and had long reaching affects for anyone who stepped in the middle and while no one had officially called prank war yet, giving John the idea to put Dean in drag was as good as, as far as Dean was concerned.

He just couldn't wait to see how long it took Sam to figure it out.

* * *

It took three hours and when Dean heard Sam's yell of, "Why the hell is there yogurt in my shoes?!" from inside the church, followed by, "Dean!" he knew it was on and even if, when asked, Sam would say he won that war, because Dean was the one to call truce after Sam managed to somehow switch his toothpaste for Wasabi – the ingenious little bastard – Dean liked to think he won, because Sam was still at least a little traumatized by what he thought happened with Frank the Goat. Even if it didn't.

-finis-


	2. Windows and Souls (1)

**Summary**: Castiel won't stop staring, Sam's just about had enough of everything, and Dean is completely oblivious, but then what else is new? (Set during Season 4)

**Warning**: Dean/Sam; hints of Castiel/Dean; humor

**Author's Note**:

* * *

**Windows and Souls: Part 1**

"He's staring at me again."

Sam looked over at Castiel and shrugged, "A lot of people stare at you, Dean. It's never bothered you before."

"No, but this is different."

Sam looked again and maybe the staring was a little more intense then usual, but he was an angel, things were bound to be intense. Then he looked at Dean, who was staring back and rolled his eyes. "If it makes you so uncomfortable, maybe you should stop staring back."

Dean's frown deepened and he tried to look away, but found himself drawn back, because, damnit, it was hard to ignore it when someone stared at you like that and it wasn't just that he was staring at Dean, either. He was staring into Dean's eyes. Right. Into. His eyes. It was the most absurdly intense eye contact Dean had ever experienced and he shifted in his seat.

He got the sinking feeling this was going to get really weird.

* * *

They didn't see Cas a lot in the beginning, so one minute he was there and Dean couldn't shake the uncomfortable watched feeling, but then he'd be gone again and just about the time Dean forgot about the staring, he'd show up again and it was back to being uncomfortable.

"Dude, he's doing it again." Sam sighed, clearly irritated by being jarred from whatever he'd been doing or thinking. Dean wasn't really sure, he hadn't been paying attention. "Did you see?"

"Yeah, Dean, I've seen it a thousand times."

"Well, that's clearly an exaggeration." Sam stared down at him and Dean suddenly realized he was being stared at by two people and he wasn't sure what he'd done to either of them to deserve it.

Sam closed his eyes and stretched his arms above his head with a groan and Dean let his mind wander to what those tight, tensed muscles looked like under all those layers. Sam's eyes opened and his lips tightened judgmentally. "Now you're the one staring."

Dean shrugged it off, because, yeah, of course he was staring. Staring at Sam wasn't anything new. Dean stared at Sam all the time. He stared at Sam when he was mad at him. He stared at Sam when he was trying to figure out why Sam was mad at him. He stared at him when he ate those fancy little breakfast pastries they splurged on so Dean could watch his brother perv over them and make little noises in the back of his throat that Dean was pretty sure he wasn't even aware he was making. He stared at him when he was mentally undressing him. He stared at him when he wanted to actually undress him. He stared at him when…

Then it clicked.

* * *

The second he managed to get Cas alone, Dean jumped on it. He jumped on it like when Sam was sixteen and asked Dean what a prostate was and if it was real.

"Do you want to have sex?"

Cas frowned with his whole face, which was actually kind of funny and Dean filed that away to think about later, after he finished having crazy sex with a freakin' angel. Not a fallen one, either, an actual, honest to God angel. With wings. He was going to be able to hold this over Sam for _years_.

"Are you asking if I wish to… copulate with you?"

The confusion made Dean's confidence waver and he tried to look anywhere but the eyes that are still staring way too intently at him for someone who didn't want to have sex. Or copulate. Or whatever.

"Yea… maybe? Would you?"

"To what end?"

"Um…" Dean backed up a step and tried to decide how this had gone so spectacularly wrong. Or if it was going wrong, because Cas was still staring at him, so maybe it hadn't gone wrong, maybe it was going right. "Because it would feel good?"

"Would it?"

Actually, now that Dean thought about it, he had no idea if angels were even able to have sex. Presumably, since they were in human vessels, they had all the equipment, Anna sure as hell could, but she hadn't really been so much an angel at the time, so maybe not.

Castiel nodded to himself thoughtfully against Dean's silence. "I suppose it must. Humans do it often. Would you like to?"

And he was staring into Dean's eyes again and Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "No, you know what, it's not, just… no, never mind."

* * *

But if that wasn't why he was staring at him all the damn time, then… why?!

Sam shoved the lid of the laptop down a little harder then necessary and glared at Dean from across the room. "Why do you care so much?"

"Because it's creepy, Sam."

"No, creepy is what popped up on my internet browser history this morning, Dean, not an angel of the lord making platonic eyes at you."

He ignored the browser history remark, because there was nothing creepy about jacking off to up-skirt shots of hot Asian chicks wearing skimpy school girl uniforms while Sam slept in the bed next to him. Dropping his towel on the floor by the tub, Dean ruffled his hands through his hair before making his way into the room and sitting on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows.

"I'm still not convinced it's platonic. I know platonic and nothing in that stare says he wants to hang out and trade baseball cards."

"Honestly, Dean, I don't think you'd know platonic if it _didn't_ bite you in the ass." Sam glanced over, his eyes moving from Dean's face down his naked, splayed out body before coming back up a little too quickly. Yeah, he was totally in there.

"Whatever, we doin' this?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "Classy."

Dean shrugged and waited, one hand behind his head, the other stroking himself, because why the hell not?

"God, you are a total slut, you know that right?"

Again, he shrugged. "Technically, I've only had sex with three people and I'm twenty-nine. You're twenty-five and in the double digits. That makes you the slut."

"For the last time, 're-virginized' is not a thing."

"Totally a thing."

Sam gave him full on bitch face – the one reserved for when he was pissed about something, but he wasn't going to tell Dean, because it was apparently up to Dean to figure it out - and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Dean made a mental note to figure out what the hell his problem was, right after he figured out why Cas insisting on prolonged eye contact.

* * *

"So, I'm sucking him off and…"

"Wow, wait, just back up a second there!" Sam looked up from his laptop, balanced on his thighs where he'd stretched out over the other bed, his back to the headboard and Dean stopped rubbing the slide of his pistol with the oil rag and waited. "You were sucking him off?"

"Well, yeah. I got him a prostitute, but he kind of freaked her out, so…"

"He freaked her out?"

"Yeah, apparently, he tried to talk to her about her daddy issues and she kicked him out." At least that got him a chuckle from the other bed. "So, I finished what she didn't start."

"Okay, fine, and then what?" Sam was back to scrolling through something on his laptop and Dean wasn't sure what it was, because they weren't exactly working a case, but who the hell knew with Sam. Maybe he was reading a dissertation of the migratory pattern of wild geese.

"Right, so I'm sucking him off for like twenty minutes, Sam. Twenty fucking minutes and my jaw's aching and I couldn't figure out what the hell I was doing wrong, because, this mouth? This mouth was made to please and I can count on one hand the number of times it's taken ten minutes to get someone off, male or female, but never more then that and sure as hell not twenty."

Sam didn't look nearly as impressed as Dean thought he should have.

"And I'm using every trick in the book. I'm working him with my hand, I've got my tongue doing that thing you like," Sam's eyes narrowed, but Dean was too intent on the story to really notice, "I'm going to town on him and it's just… nothing. He's hard, but that's about it. He wasn't even making any noise. No panting, no moaning, nothing. So, I figure, maybe I need to ask him what the hell I'm doing wrong and I look up, still sucking and he's staring at me and we make eye contact and he just blows his load the second our eyes meet."

He paused, but Sam didn't appear to have anything to say on the matter, so Dean continued, "And don't get me wrong, I mean, twenty minutes or not, I got a full blown angel to cum down my throat, so it wasn't a total loss, but the eye contact thing? It's just creepy."

He paused again, but now that he looked, Sam wasn't just staring. His jaw was clenched, his eyes narrowed, his breath coming too deep, too even, too controlled. Then Sam set his laptop on the bedside table and slid his legs over so his feet were on the carpet and Dean had just enough time to say, "What are you…?" before Sam grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him across the two feet between the beds, pulling him on top and into a heated kiss, which wasn't exactly what he was going for when he started the conversation, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining.

"The eyes are the windows to the soul."

"Whatsat?" Dean looked up from the burger he was inhaling to Sam, who was sitting across from him at the table, laptop open, looking way to smug for someone quoting Shakespeare.

* * *

"The eyes are the windows to the soul. Cas is an angel, right?"

"Uh hu."

"What if he's, you know, looking into your soul?" Dean chewed more slowly, considering. "I mean, it makes sense in a… perverse sort of way."

"What's perverse about it?"

"I don't know, it's just… he does do a lot staring…"

"Ha! You have noticed!"

Sam flinched, "Okay, yeah, fine, a little. He kind of… stared at me too, once. Just once." Like he was making excuses for having been stared at, because when Cas stared, it felt kind of violating, which, if Sam was right about the whole soul thing, it probably at least sort of was.

"And?"

"And nothing." Sam pushing the rest of his fries at Dean, "It was when Allistair nearly killed you and I… took care of it and Cas looked at me, like, really, _really_, looked at me."

"What'd you do?"

"I don't know, made some crack about later and he got confused and I didn't want to explain and it was really awkward. Thankfully, we had to get you to a hospital, so there wasn't a lot of time to talk."

"So glad my life threatening injuries could be of assistance."

"Right, so I've spent the last few months researching angels and there's not a lot out there that isn't complete bullshit, but after a while, I got to thinking about all that talk about souls and then I remembered that stupid quote and I thought, hey, maybe there's something to it. Just a theory."

Dean rolled it over in his head and, as far as theories about angels went, it wasn't a half bad one. It was worth looking into, if nothing else. "So, that's what you've been doing on your laptop this whole time?"

"What did you think I was doing?"

"Gerbil porn."

"Jerk. One fucking time…"

Dean chuckled around the last of the fries, because that shit never got old.

* * *

_"You have a beautiful soul, Dean. It's… hard not to look."_

Sam was right and on some level, Dean had thought knowing would at least make it a little better, but somehow it was worse, because Sam was even more pissy then he had been, which made absolutely no sense, because Sam had been right. In their entire lives there had never been a time when Sam being right had made him more pissed.

All Dean had said was, "Dude, you were right!"

Sam had spit his toothpaste in the sink and slurred something like, "Ribouwha?" before swishing water into his mouth. Thankfully, Dean spoke all forms of Sam, but he was especially good with 'trying to talk with his mouth full' Sam.

"The soul thing."

Sam spit, reaching for a towel, "And?"

"And nothing, he's got a thing for my soul because he got all touchy feely with it dragging me out of Hell. But, hey, I can pretty much get him off in under five minutes if I maintain eye contact, so there's that. Speaking of getting off."

He left it open, but Sam didn't respond, just brushed his hair back with damp hands and got in the bed, back to Dean. Really, that just about summed up Dean's life – he solved one problem, just to have another pop up in his face.

_-tbc-_


	3. Windows and Souls (2)

**Windows and Souls: Part 2**

"Idjit."

"What?!"

"You heard me, boy."

"But I didn't do anything!"

He hadn't. Really, he hadn't. He'd just been talking to Sam about how Cas making eye contact with someone was like Dean staring at a nice pair of tits in a low cut shirt. Except when Dean did it, he got slapped and it totally wasn't fair. Although, on the plus side, Dean had been doing some experimenting and it turned out that denying Cas eye contact made it more difficult for him to cum, which meant he could keep it going for like thirty freakin' minutes at a time, which was how long it took for Dean to finally tap out.

Then Sam had stormed out with Dean chasing behind him, yelling, "What? What did I do? Come on, Sammy!" While Sam drove off in the Impala, leaving Dean standing in the middle of the scrap yard with Bobby wiping a tool down over an engine he was rebuilding, shaking his head, saying, "Idjit."

"You know what this is about?

Bobby ducked under the hood of the car wordlessly.

"How the hell do you know what's going on? You weren't even there."

"'Cause I'm not deaf, dumb, and stupid, boy, unlike you."

Dean opened his mouth, but thought better about what he was about to say and stormed back into the house instead.

* * *

Sam was back before sunup and Dean figured everything was okay, because he woke up at four in the morning to Sam doing ungodly things with his mouth and, since they were apparently okay, Dean returned the favor before falling asleep again. Except when he woke up at noon, Sam was back to ignoring him.

"And I just can't figure out what his problem is."

Cas nodded thoughtfully, "Yes, that is perplexing. Although, I'm unsure why you're talking to me about this – my grasp of human emotion is very limited. You should be talking to Sam."

"No! God, no, he's the last person I want to talk to."

"I fail to see your reasoning."

"See, Cas, I'm a guy. I just want to know what I did wrong so I can fix it and go back to groping Sam whenever Bobby isn't watching. "

"I think you underestimate how often Bobby is watching."

"But if I go to Sam, he's gonna want to talk about his feelings and whatever feelings he thinks I'm having…"

"He's often correct."

"That's not the point. Of course he's right, doesn't mean I want to talk about it."

Cas went over it in his head again, frowning, "That makes very little sense."

Dean tipped his bottle to Cas, who was sitting next to him on the hood of some run down junker, lost in the middle of scrap yard. 'Little sense' was better then 'no sense' which was where they'd been the last time they'd tried this. He downed the last half of the bottle in a long pull and sighed.

"You ready to do this?"

"Of course, I did answer your prayer."

"Right, remember, open your throat this time. Don't choke on it."

* * *

"Sam, you can't keep ignoring me, it's ridiculous."

Sam didn't look up from the demonic tome he was flipping through. "Does that mean you want to talk about it?"

"No, I… no, absolutely not." Dean started to walk out, then stopped, deflated. As much as he hated talking, Sam obviously needed it and, more pointedly, Dean wanted to get into Sam's pants and he had enough experience to know that if Sam wanted to talk, he wasn't letting Dean anywhere near his ass until they had. Right, he'd just have to take one for the team. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Too bad."

"Son of a bitch!"

Dean stormed into the study and flopped on the couch, glaring openly at Sam while he ate his pocket pie more viciously then necessary. It shouldn't be this hard. Sam liked to talk. Sam was always bitching at him about how he needed to talk. Sam probably thought the world's problems could be solved if everyone just talked. So why wasn't he willing to do it now?

When Sam hadn't so much as look at him, Dean tossed the wrapper in the trash and went out in search of Bobby, who was still working on the Ford he'd been stripping for parts.

"Man, I don't get it."

"I'm not listening to this horse shit."

Dean ignored him. "I finally agree to talk and he wants nothing to do with it."

"What the hell do you expect?"

Dean leaned onto the roof of the car, "Well, maybe if someone would throw me a freakin' bone, I'd be able to figure this out."

"What's going on, Dean Winchester, is that you have your head up your ass. Hand me the ratchet."

"Ten?"

"Seven."

Dean passed it over with a belabored sigh and Bobby went back to work. "How am I supposed to get my head out of my ass if no one'll tell me how it got up there in the first place?"

A muffled curse, followed by something that sounded like it could be a sentence came from somewhere inside the engine and Dean leaned forward. "What was that?"

"I said, if I have to sit here and listen to this, least you could do is get me a beer."

"Right."

He pushed off the car and headed back into the house. It was eerily quiet, just like it had been for the last few days. As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, Dean had a full half a second to note that Sam wasn't in the chair at the table, before he was thrown back against a wall toppling over a stack of books as Sam pressed in close, smothering Dean's protests with his mouth.

Great, if he wasn't being ignored, he was being mauled, but at least Dean knew how to respond to this. He got a fist into Sam's shirt and pulled him in, pressing his hips up into his brother's in a hard thrust. This he was good at, this he understood.

With a low growl, Sam backed up until he hit the fridge, then twisted around and the edge of the counter dug into Dean's ass before Sam's hands got a grip under his thighs, lifting him up to sit on it. Okay, this was a little different. Usually, it would have been Sam on the counter, Dean shoving him back and around until they had a good angle for hard and rough. The same hands gripped Dean's ass, pulling him half off the edge to lock their hips together, his legs spread wide and, okay, different didn't necessarily mean bad. Whatever was eating the kid up, he could let him have this, at least for now.

Besides, Dean would bite off his own tongue before admitting it, but being manhandled wasn't exactly a turn off. Sam pushed Dean's shirt up, sliding his hands into the back of his jeans and squeezed, grinding forward. Yeah, definitely not a turn off.

Sam nipped at his chin, down his neck and bit his shoulder and Dean let himself be pushed back, his shoulders jammed against the wall as Sam pushed his shirt up and worked his mouth over Dean's abdomen, pecs, teeth and tongue on his nipples while he worked open his pants and…

The door rattled on its hinges as something slammed into it and Sam scrambled back, cursing as Dean got his feet under him, both of them smoothing out their shirts and trying desperately not to look like they were about to have sex in Bobby's kitchen. Again.

Bobby didn't bother to look at them as he went to fridge, "There's a window, you idjits."

Sure enough, Dean could just make out the Ford Bobby had been working on through the open window. From over by the sink, where Dean had been slammed around it would have been a clear view to where Bobby had been working. It was probably the failings of having practically grown up in motel rooms. The shades were always drawn tight, because they didn't want anyone to see the extensive arms collection lying around, but Bobby didn't have to worry about things like closing the blinds, because no one lived close enough to him to see in and if they did, well, it was his house and he had permits.

"Huh. Guess Cas was right about you seeing more then I give you credit for."

Sam frowned, "When did he say that?"

"We met up a few days ago, made small talk, exchanged blow jobs. He's getting better, but I'm starting to worry deep throating just isn't gonna take. It's not a breathing thing. He's an angel, he doesn't have to breathe, but every time I get back there, he tightens up. Future him was really good at it, but he was mostly human." He snapped his fingers, "You know, he smoked a lot of weed. I wonder how much weed it would take to get an angel high?"

He looked from Bobby to Sam, expectantly, but Sam was staring at him with narrowed eyes.

"What?"

The door slammed behind him as Sam stormed out into the scrap yard, leaving Dean feeling a little dumbfounded and Bobby shaking his head. Before Dean could say anything, Bobby held up a hand. "Think about it."

"What? I just… all I said was Cas… is it Cas?"

"_Think_, Dean."

He was, he really was, but… "Sam likes Cas. Well, okay, maybe he doesn't _like_ him, but he certainly doesn't hate him, he puts up with him just fine, he… wait, is it the sex?"

"Think."

"Why would he be bothered by the sex?"

"…"

"Sex has never bothered him before and I've had plenty of sex. Like, a lot of sex. I've crossed off every state and a few foreign countries. This one time, I crossed international borders. I brokered a peace treaty between…"

"Dean!"

"Right, sorry, but it doesn't make sense, unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Are you saying…? Is he _jealous_?!"

But it couldn't be that, because that was absolutely ridiculous. Sam didn't get jealous. Sam _never_ got jealous. Dean had been sleeping around since he was fifteen and the only thing Sam ever had to say on it was exactly how much of a slut Dean was. Sam didn't care if Dean got random tail on the side, except… except maybe Cas wasn't so random, because now that Dean thought about it, he didn't really go back for seconds. Cassie, sure, but Sam was in college and there was Lisa, but he didn't know about her.

Bobby set his half empty beer down, "I'm goin' into town for groceries," which was a polite way of saying he didn't want to be around for the makeup sex that was most likely going to ensue. "You need anything?"

"No, no, I'm good. Take your time."

"And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep it out of the kitchen."

* * *

"Sam."

"I don't want to talk about it, Dean."

"Yeah, you do."

Dean sat on the hood of the car across from Sam and Sam stared at his hands rather than at his brother.

"You want to tell me why you're jealous of Cas?"

"I'm not…" Sam looked up as he spoke and stopped at the raised eyebrows looking back at him. "Okay, fine, it's just…"

When he didn't continue right away, Dean leaned forward, "It's just what?"

Sam diverted his attention back to his hands, "The whole soul thing. He knows your _soul_, he's touched your _soul_, I can't… Dean, I can't do that. I can't even come close. Seriously, you barely let me touch your _car_."

Dean chuckled a little, because, yeah, his soul was one thing, Baby, though? That was another matter. Then he frowned, because Dean was good at a lot of things, most of them related to hunting, cars, and sex, but if there was anything he was really bad at – other then pole dancing – it was talking about his feelings. It wasn't that he didn't understand them, because he knew exactly how he felt about Sam, it was just that he didn't know how to put it into words that weren't going to sound like something out of Bobby's cheesy romance novels. But Sam needed to hear it, and even if Dean choked on his own tongue getting it out, he was going to say it.

"All right, Sam, I want you to listen very carefully, because I am only gonna say this once." He took a deep breath in and held it for a second before forcing the words out through a tight jaw. "He can touch my soul all he wants, but that doesn't mean anything, because you, and only you, Sammy, get my heart."

Sam blinked at him and Dean could actually feel the heat rising in his face, turning it redder by the second. "Wow, Dean, that was… actually kind of painful to listen to."

He broke out laughing and Dean grimaced, "Yeah, well, you should have been on this end of it. So, are we good?"

Sam nodded, unable to form words through his laughter and Dean glared at him until Sam finally managed to deep breathe his way into just smiling like an idiot, panting a little.

Dean glared, "You done?"

Sam nodded again, not trusting himself to actually talk.

"You ever tell anyone about this…"

"Valentines Day Debacle 1998, yeah, I know." Sam finished for him, because remembering that sobered him up every time. Didn't wipe the grin off his face, though, because seriously, he had Dean's _heart_? He was never gonna get tired of reminding Dean about that.

Dean gave him a few more seconds of dubious scrutiny before rolling his shoulders, "God, I feel dirty now."

"Want to go up to the bedroom and let me take care of that for you?" Sam gave a suggestive eye brow wiggle when Dean looked up, but he just shook his head.

"No, after that little speech, anything we do in our bed is gonna feel too much like making love."

"Kitchen, then?" Because they'd been halfway there earlier, might as well finish the job.

"Nah, Bobby warned us off."

Too hot to do it outside. Couldn't do the study, either, because Bobby had said he'd shoot them if he caught them in there again. Panic room wasn't much fun. Sam usually came out of that with bruised knees. That didn't leave a lot of other options, except…

"Hey, Dean?" Dean grunted at him, still running through the same train of thought Sam probably was. "I know you said our bed is off limits, but what about, uh… what about Bobby's bed?"

Dean's eyes shot up. "Sam, you kinky little bitch. He catches us in there, he won't even give us a warning, just go straight for the gun."

Sam shrugged, because he could tell from the increasingly large swell at the front of Dean's jeans, the idea of getting shot wasn't exactly a deterrent.

"God, you know how wrong that is? The bed probably smells like him."

Sam rubbed himself through his pants, "Not for long."

Dean cursed and got up, heading to the house with Sam on his heels, "You know this means we can't stay the night, right? We wash the sheets, he's gonna know something happened, we don't wash them, he's gonna smell it."

"I think I'll live as long I still have your heart."

"You shut your mouth."

"Make me."

_-finis-_


	4. It's All Fun and Games Until

**Summary: **Okay, so fine, Dean may have stepped a pinky toe over of line with the shower thing, but Sam took a flying leap into no-man's land and that wasn't even the worst part.

**Warning: **Dean/Sam; Pre-series; Underaged; prank wars; John's dubious parenting skills; crack; humor

* * *

**It's All Fun and Games Until...  
**

John was pretty sure leaving was a mistake. He was fully aware that Sam and Dean were currently engaged in a prank war. He knew leaving them alone was giving them carte blanch. There would be no one there to make sure it didn't get too far out of hand and no one to mitigate the damage if it occurred – okay, _when _it occurred – but, on the other hand, at least he wouldn't be caught in the middle this time and, worst came to worst, it wouldn't be the first time he'd had to yank one of his boys out of the system.

"Keep it clean." Sam grinned innocently from the sofa, but John knew better. "Sam…"

The grin dropped, "Fine. Clean. I get it."

Dean?"

Dean gave his best reassuring smile, "I've got this, Dad, don't worry. Clean fight."

"No, no fights! Dear god, no fights. I don't want someone calling Social Services again. This starts to get out of hand and I'm leaving it to you to back out. Are we clear?"

He nodded, still smiling and not for the first time, John considered taking Dean with him. Sam was sixteen, more then old enough to watch after himself for a few days, or even a week if it came to that. Except the neighbor was getting nosy again, so having an adult around would look better if CPS showed up and, more importantly, just because he took Dean with him, didn't mean they were even calling a time out. The last time he'd tried that, Sam had rigged a stink bomb to go off in Dean's duffel six hours out of town and the inside of the car, not to mention its two occupants and all their clothing had smelled like dead skunk for two weeks. It had also earned rule number one of prank wars – as long as the title of that car was in John's name, it was off limits.

Even if he managed to get Dean out without Sam setting up some form of booby-trap, though, it just gave the devious little bastard a week alone to come up with something truly horrendous. So, no, taking Dean wasn't an option. Best to get out of the line of fire and let them work it out on their own.

"Dean, are we clear?"

"Yes, sir." That was better, more like he was responding to an order and less like he was placating his father. John still would have liked a better solution to the problem, but sometimes, he figured he just had to cut his losses and get the hell out of Dodge. By the time he got back, the whole thing should have mostly blown over. If he was lucky. If he was unlucky, he'd be walking into the epicenter of the devastation.

* * *

John left Sunday night and Monday morning Dean woke up to the freedom of not having to do a damn thing. Sam was pretty much self sufficient. He could get himself up and dressed and while Dean usually dropped him off at school, Dad had the car and this apartment was close enough for Sam to walk.

The apartment was small, but had an actual dedicated bedroom with two beds and an en suite bathroom – the only one in the apartment, but still. The living room was barely large enough for the couch and small television, with a four chair round kitchen table behind that and an archway that led into a kitchen that only one of them could fit in at a time, but was actually pretty clean and the stove worked, so Dean wasn't complaining.

Just outside the bedroom door, he could hear a spoon clinking against one of the bowls that had come with the apartment as Sam finished his cereal. The water turned on and, wonder of all wonders, Sam was actually doing his own dishes. Usually, the kid just dropped the bowl in the sink and ran out the door, but Dean wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The bedroom door cracked opened and Sam poked his head in, "You awake?"

"Yeah. Wa's up?"

"Just heading out. I started the dishwasher."

"Got it."

The front door opened a minute later and closed, the lock turning with a click. Dean stretched out on the bed and lay limply in the scratchy sheets for a few more minutes before finally dragging himself up. It was early, but he was up and one of the unfortunate draw backs to life as a Hunter was that once he was up, he was up. The shower chased the last of the sleep out of his head and as he brushed his teeth, he looked at himself in the mirror, noting the fading edges of the bruise on the side of his head, just under the hairline.

Stupid chupacabras were fucking fast. At least it wasn't a jackalope – that shit was seriously messed up. Small and fast, it was a furry little ball of teeth and horns that leapt so far it practically flew at you. While his friends had been laughing at the rabbit in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Dean had been having Vietnam style flash backs to a hunt in south Texas.

He pulled on the white shirt he'd left out and after a few minutes with some product and a comb, Dean felt pretty much ready to start the day.

Then he left the bathroom and all hell broke lose, because Dean had forgotten that they were in the middle of a prank war and even if he had remembered, he wouldn't have expected to walk out to a wall of watery foam pouring out of the tiny kitchen into the dining room.

"What the fuck!?"

He slipped on the soapy carpet and caught himself against the wall, watching in dismay as thick white foam that smelled too strongly of flowers and what he guessed was supposed to be the 'linen fresh' scent of their off brand laundry detergent. Son of a bitch had put laundry detergent in the dishwasher and if the amount of soap leaking out between the cracks was anything to go by, he'd used the entire damn bottle. It was going to take hours to clean up.

As he rushed, skidding on bare feet over soap matted carpet, he swore Sam was gonna pay hard for this one.

* * *

It took the entire afternoon, because even after he got the water stopped and cleaned up the floor, he'd had to scrub the inside of the decade old dishwasher with all its years of caked on soap scum until he was sure there wasn't anymore detergent left in there and, since he'd used all their towels doing it, he'd had to go to the Laundromat down the street to wash them. By the time he got home, Sam was dutifully and innocently doing his homework, feet crossed in the wooden chair so they didn't touch the wet floor.

Dean dropped the towels on the sofa and Sam's shoulders were shaking so hard he was hunched over himself at the table, snorts of laughter coming from behind the fall of shaggy brown hair hiding his smile. "Oh, you think that's funny, smart ass?"

Sam swallowed down his laughter long enough to say, "A little bit." But still didn't look up to meet Dean's glare.

"Just fold the damn towels."

They didn't say anything to each other the rest of the night and the next morning, Dean was up before Sam, plotting revenge. It took an entire day, but he finally had it. There were certain things that were off limits. The car, for one, but he would never defile the Impala that way. Food, for another, because Sam had put a highly potent medical grade laxative in a pie once that both Dean and John had dug into and six hours later they were jockeying for the only toilet in the apartment while Sam nearly pissed himself laughing. He also wasn't allowed to do anything management would take out of their deposit.

So, okay, that left a few options. He could freeze all of Sam's underwear, but he'd already done that twice this year. He could rub superglue on the toilet seat, but the timing had to be right and there was a slim chance he'd accidentally glue himself to it instead.

As he picked through the steadily thinning cupboards for something to eat for lunch, he noticed a small box stuck in the back. He pulled it out of a nest of cobwebs and read the label in amusement. Food coloring. Dear god, how long had that been back there? At least two years according to the expiration date.

He grabbed the bag of pork rinds and tossed the box in the trash on the way to the couch, stopped, and backed up, fishing the food coloring out of a sea of floral scented paper towels.

Yahtzee.

* * *

"Dean, you jerk!"

Dean sat at the table, eating his cereal and waited patiently for Sam to come storming out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waste, his skin tinted a light shade of green.

"What the hell did you do?!" He shoved another spoonful of cereal into his mouth as Sam fumed. "I have to go to school like this, you ass!"

"That was kind of the point."

Sam stormed off, leaving Dean to chuckle into his cereal, but by the time his brother slammed the door shut, he was already thinking that maybe putting the entire packet of green die in the shower head had been a little too much, because Sam was right. Sure, Dean had to spend the whole day cleaning up the floors and the inside of the washer, but that green was going to last at least two days and Sam had to sit through class. Dean may have skated through high school on good looks and charm until he decided to drop out, but Sam was actually trying and he wasn't nearly as good as Dean had been at blending in.

He probably owed the kid an apology, but the minute Sam got home from school, he slammed the door to the bedroom and locked it, refusing to talk to Dean, even when he finally picked the lock because he had to pee so bad it hurt. He tried apologizing and not just because he knew what he'd done was at least a pinky toe over the line, but because Sam didn't give hand jobs when he was mad and with Dad gone, they could go at it anywhere they wanted. The couch, the kitchen table, the kitchen counter, the bathroom counter, the shower – his brain shorted as he realized their dad had an actual bed. They could dry hump on it and laugh about it behind his back.

Except at the suggestion, Sam had one of his own. "Why don't you masturbate on it alone and I'll laugh behind _your_ back?" Before he'd kicked Dean out of bed. Literally.

On day two of Sam refusing to talk to him or touch him in any way that didn't cause some kind of pain, they were getting low on food, so Dean waited until Sam was back from school and headed out to find somewhere to get some cash. All their rented rooms had to meet three basic criteria. They had to be cheap, close to the school, and close to somewhere Dean could earn extra money if they needed it, because John could never be sure how long any particular hunt was going to take.

He'd come early rather then sit around the apartment getting ignored, so e'd comeHe'd it took a few hours for the after work crowd to get there, a few more for it to thin out to just the deep drinkers, and a few more to get them drunk enough for Dean to work his magic without someone getting suspicious. Thankfully, one of the waitresses agreed to help Dean pass the time and it was mostly a little flirting with some quick oral in the backroom on her break, but it broke up the monotony of sitting around with his now warm beer waiting for someone to get inebriated enough to take the bait.

When he finally made it back into the apartment at a quarter to midnight, Sam was still awake, sprawled over the sofa with a plate of carrots in front of him, watching reruns of Saturday Night Live and Dean sat next to him, shoving Sam's feet out of the way and getting a sharp kick to the thigh for his effort before Sam stretched his legs over Dean's thighs and settled back in.

"Long night of chasing tail?"

Dean reached forward, past Sam's legs, ignoring the foot shoved up under his nose to take one of the carrots off the plate. He bit into it as he flopped back and away from the offensive smell. "I wasn't chasing tail, I was working."

"Dean, scamming pool at a bar and picking up chicks does not count as work."

"Really, then how come I've got a hundred fifty burning a hole in my pocket?"

"If you have a hundred and fifty why am I eating carrots for dinner? I'm a growing boy."

"God, I hope not. You're an inch away from being taller then me and you're only sixteen. You keep growing you'll be a full on sasquatch."

"Maybe you should keep growing, too, then." The foot that had been shoving its way under Dean's nose a minute earlier shifted to press into his crotch, "Well, look at that, you're already making progress."

Dean nearly choked as he swallowed, but didn't push the foot away. Blowjob earlier that evening or not, Sam was really good with his feet. Or maybe Dean was just a slut for it. Probably a little of both. "Dude, you better not be just fucking with me."

The foot pressed harder, rubbing up and down and Dean let his legs fall open, giving Sam more room to work. He bit into the carrot again and was just about to move his hand over to reciprocate when Sam sat up, moving to straddle Dean's lap, "Guess what I've been doing?"

Dean swallowed thickly, tossing the carrot into the table in favor of digging his fingers into Sam's hips, pushing him down to grind his brother's ass into his crotch. "What?"

"I've been getting myself ready for you."

"Yeah?"

Dean slid one of his hands back and let his fingers slip under the waist band of Sam's underwear, into the cleft of his ass. They hadn't gotten that far yet, not for lack of wanting to, but Dean said they had to take it slow, build up to it. He wasn't going from one finger and a prostate tickle to shoving a dick up his sixteen year old brother's ass in one night. They'd been doing fingers for a few months now, though, and Sam had been all but begging Dean to take it further.

"You know what that means, Dean?"

He squeezed the tight globed of Sam's ass cheeks and groaned. "Means you've been shoving things up your ass?"

"Uh hu." Sam leaned forward, put his mouth next to Dean's ear, his voice breathy, "Things like that carrot you just ate."

It took a minute for his brain to catch up with what Sam was saying and when it did, Dean shoved his brother off him and scrambled off the couch, eyeing him with a new level of something between disgust and respect, but mostly disgust.

"Dude, seriously?! Food is off limits!"

Sam stayed where he'd been dropped on the couch, smiling triumphantly, "Whatever, Dad's not here."

"Did you really?!" Sam nodded. "Did you at least wash it?"

"Of course, I washed them. You might have noticed the smell if I hadn't run them under soap and water. Doesn't change the fact they were in my ass, though."

"That…" His dick and brain were warring, because okay, yeah, that was a new level of fucked up, but he really couldn't hate the image of Sam shoving anything up his ass. Still, though, eroticism of food and sex aside, you don't eat the carrot afterwards. "That's just wrong, Sam."

"Does that mean you're calling a truce?"

"No. It does mean I'm going to brush my teeth and then we're going out to get real food. Food that has not been shoved up your ass."

Sam stretched out and tapped Dean's hip with his foot. "You know for someone who likes to talk about how much I'm gonna love it when you decide to stick your tongue up there, you certainly are squeamish about a little ass carrot."

"Not the same thing!"

"Keep telling yourself that."

"Get your damn shoes on. I want pie!"

He pretended he couldn't hear Sam laughing in the other room while he brushed his teeth and planned his revenge.

* * *

The Waffle House didn't have pie, but Dean ate two giant waffles, smothered in too-sweet syrup and teased Sam for his fruit cup and toast. By the time they got back to the apartment, they were both in a much better mood – Sam dragging Dean into long kisses and Dean shoving Sam back against the door of the apartment as he worked the key.

Dean barely managed to kick the door shut before they fell over each other onto the couch and had one hand on Sam's zipper when his brother suddenly went still under him, "Dean."

"What?"

"Dean."

"Dude, what?!"

"The carrots!" Dean looked over and sure enough, the plate was empty. Who the hell…?

The toilet flushed and they flew apart. Dean hit the side of the sofa so hard he was pretty sure he was going to have a bruise, but at least he wasn't on top of his little brother when their dad came out of the bathroom.

"Hey, boys, what are you doing up this late? Don't you have school in the morning, Sam?"

"Huh? No, uh, holiday." It wasn't, but John would probably sleep through it anyway and Sam was too flustered to come up with anything better. "You're back early."

"Hunt didn't pan out." John frowned, assessing them and Dean didn't need a mirror to know his flushed cheeks and disheveled clothes matched Sam's. "What have you boys been up to?"

Dean jumped in with, "Sparring. We've been practicing at the highschool. On the field."

Sam rolled his eyes and John sighed like it was painful, "Never mind. Dean, I want you up at 0600 and the pantry stocked before I get out of bed. I'm starving and the only thing you had in this entire place were the carrots you left out."

They looked at each other and the words, "Truce!" came out of both their mouths before either of them could think better of it.

The deep breath John took was less of a sigh and more of a clear attempt not to strangle someone, which Dean really appreciated, because he was the oldest and most likely to be strangling. "Are we going to have another situation like with the pie?"

Sam started with, "I just…" and John cut him off with a hand and a stern look. "I do not want to hear it. _Really_. I just need to know if someone is going to end up shitting in a trash can again."

A mumbled "no" and John nodded, "I'm going to sleep and you will never, ever tell me what you did to those carrots."

The bedroom door slammed shut and they sat for several minute in complete silence before Sam finally blurted out, "I'm really sorry about the carrots."

"I kind of deserved it. I know you've had a hard time with school and moving around so much, I shouldn't make it harder on you by turning you into Oscar the Adorable Grouch." Sam threw him a quick bitch face, but only at half ferocity, so Dean figured they were square. "But, look, I've been meaning to ask you something."

He scooted over, one eye on the bedroom door while he settled his hand on the inside of Sam's thigh and lowered his voice so John couldn't hear through the too thin walls. "Now that Dad's back with the car, how do you feel about losing your virginity in the back of the Impala?"

Sam's mouth dropped open and he floundered for a moment with, "Wha…? No. I don't… just… I am not…" before settling on, "Yes. God, yes, come on!"

* * *

"And that is how Sam lost his virginity."

"Dean, he asked whether he should get me a salad while he was out."

"Right, sorry. And that, Kevin, is why Sam can't have carrots on his salad."

"What, because you think I'm gonna stick them up my ass?! First of all, they're shredded, okay? And second, that was over ten years ago, Dean! I'm not sixteen anymore."

"Have you or have you not stuck a vegetable up your ass in the last six months?"

"…no comment."

"No carrots."

"Fine!"

"Got that, Kevin? … Kevin?"

"I think you broke him."

_-finis-_


	5. The Great Wendigo Hunt of 1995

**Summary: **"Hey, Krissy, you want to hear about the Great Wendigo Hunt of 1995?"

**Warnings:**pre-series; pre-wincest; Dean/OFC; John's dubious parenting skills; humor

* * *

**The Great Wendigo Hunt of 1995**

**_Present Day_**

"Hey, Krissy, you want to hear about the Great Wendigo Hunt of 1995?"

"Don't do it, Krissy!" Dean interrupted loudly, one finger of the hand holding his beer pointed at her, his eyes stern.

"Stay out of this, Dean." Sam waved him off, his attention never wavering from Krissy and the Vanilla Float she was nursing. "So, you want to hear it or not?"

Something in his over-exuberant smile told her to say no, but then Dean said not to, so it had to be good. After a minute, she took a long, comforting pull of ice cream and coke through her straw and nodded.

* * *

**_March 1995_**

"Tell you what, Sammy, next time we're hunting a supernatural pedophile, you can be the bait. Until then, get your ass back in the circle and shut the fuck up!"

"Dean, language!" John admonished.

"Whatever, he's the one that wants to get eaten by a Wendigo!"

"I don't want to get eaten by anything, I just don't want you to get eaten, either. Why can't dad be the bait?"

"Because things never go after dad, he scares them."

Which was a valid, freakin' point and Sammy knew it. John Winchester practically oozed 'don't fuck with me' and nothing went after him that wasn't looking for a challenge. Wendigo's were vicious little fuckers, but they didn't live over a hundred years by being reckless. If the prey was too dangerous, they'd kill it and move on to something less threatening.

At sixteen, Dean could kill just about anything, given the right weapon, but he still had the slim build of youth and a baby face that said he could be trusted, which he couldn't, but a Wendigo wouldn't know that. Neither had Mercy Sanders or her cousin Shawn, for that matter, and maybe if they'd been a little less gullible, they wouldn't have ended up in bed with him together. It was okay, though, he was pretty sure they weren't blood related – like eighty percent sure and that was better then the odds he faced being Wendigo bait.

Point was, he had a talent for looking like an easy target to anything with claws and he had no problem using that on a hunt. He just wished his brother would stop bitching about it.

Sam stood with his arms straight down at his sides, his fists clenched, leaning forward like he was thinking about throwing a punch. John stepped between them and pushed Sam back firmly with a hand on either shoulder. "Sammy, this is Dean's job. You asked to tag along, now stop interfering."

For a second, Dean thought Sam was going to throw the punch he'd been gearing toward at John, but instead, he turned his back to them and sat down in a huff, arms crossed over his chest. For being twelve years old, he did a really good impression of a toddler.

John and Dean ignored him, going over to the packs sitting on the other side of the fire. John rummaged through one, tugging out the GPS tracker that Dean tucked into his jacket pocket. The plan was simple. The Wendigo would attack, Dean would play possum after the first hit or two, it would drag him off, and Sam and John would follow the signal to its cave.

Reaching back into the pack, John pulled out two road flairs and duck tape. Dean groaned, "Do I have to?"

"Ye…"

They were interrupted by Sam, who stormed over, took his large bag of skittles out of his pack, and storming back to his side of the fire.

John shook his head. "Yes. Chances are you won't need it, but just in case."

Reluctantly, Dean pulled up the left leg of his jeans. The duck tape was a son of a bitch to peel off later. He'd lose the hair, not to mention layers of skin and it would itch and pull like a son of a bitch, but his dad was right. He'd rather go in with a weapon, even if he knew the cavalry was right behind him.

John carefully wound the tape around Dean's leg, anchoring the flairs above his boot line. Just as he finished patting it down firmly into place, a scream tore through the forest. They stared at each other then turned to the other side of the fire where Sam was supposed to be sitting and found the space empty.

Dean's, "Son of a bitch!" was echoed by John's, "God dammit, Sammy!"

* * *

Long story short, Skittles made a pretty good trail, John Winchester was a badass with a flame thrower, Dean totally _didn't_ cry when he couldn't get Sam to wake up for nearly two minutes, and Sam had a dislocated shoulder and the right side of his head was matted with blood, but the little bastard still had enough presence of mind to grin at Dean and slur, "Better'n bread crumbs." before passing out again.

John carried Sam back to the car and they drove in silence to the hotel. Overall, Sam got pretty lucky. Head injuries bled bad, so it looked worse then it was, but even a mild concussion was still a concussion, which meant he needed at least a day to recuperate. They got the shoulder reset, but he wasn't going to have full use of the arm for a few weeks.

To make matters worse, they couldn't account for all the bodies. They'd done a check before leaving and there were two unaccounted for.

Dean tried to look on the bright side, "Maybe they put up too much of a fight and it left them in the woods."

John was more realistic, "That was its hunting ground. If there were bodies to be found, we would have. No, there's something else going on here. I'm gonna go look around town."

"Hold up, I'll get my stuff."

"No." Dean opened his mouth to protest, but John wasn't having it. "Someone needs to stay here with Sammy."

Sammy protested into his pillow with, "I dun' nee' babysi…"

Then he was unconscious again and Dean sighed. "Fine, just… call if you need anything."

After John left, Dean sat on the bed next to Sam, grabbing the remote off the night stand to turn the TV on, volume low. Sam's arm moved over in his sleep until it was draped over Dean's leg and he rolled his eyes. Even with a concussion, his brother had no concept of personal space.

He reached over and stroked Sam's hair, sitting back to watch a fuzzy Simpsons episode while Sam slept off the pain pills.

* * *

It was rounding on ten and John still hadn't called to check in, which put him at five hours out and that was an hour too long for Dean. He looked at the clock beside the bed and shifted carefully off the mattress. Sam took a shaky breath in and opened his eyes, pushing up onto his elbows to look at Dean blearily. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Soda, go back to sleep."

He got to his knees and shook his head, "No, I need a shower. I stink."

Dean nodded emphatically and got a pillow thrown at him for his effort. "Prissy little bitch, aren't we?"

"Jerk. Get me a Sprite." Dean slipped out the door as Sam made his way into the bathroom.

As he walked across the parking lot, he pulled the loose change out of his pocket, counting quarters in his palm. The Impala was still missing from its space. He'd have to call John when he got back. It probably wasn't anything, wouldn't be the first time his dad took too long and forgot to check in. Come to that, maybe he should wait another hour, because it also wouldn't be the first time his dad decided to get a little stress relief while he was out, but with Sam injured, if Dean called, he would pick up, regardless of what he was in the middle of and Dean so didn't need to hear that again. Nearly a year later and he still couldn't do phone sex.

"Hey."

He turned to the velvet smooth voice behind him and stopped, smile playing easy and immediate on his face at the young girl behind him. She was older then him, early twenties, but pretty with long brown hair and a lavender sun dress that dipped low between her breasts. For just a second, he thought she looked pale, but then she smiled and it was probably just the poor lighting in the parking lot, because she had a great smile. And really great boobs.

"Hey, yourself."

She played with a strand of her hair, looked him up and down, "I haven't seen you around."

"Yeah, I'm just passin' through."

"This may be a little forward, but you are all kinds of pretty and in a town like this, I don't see much pretty. So, what do you say we go back to my place and fuck like rabbits?"

Dean stuttered, trying to pull the smile off his face and failing miserably. "That is… that is really tempting."

Really tempting, but Sammy was back at the hotel. She licked her lower lip and her hand dropped to play with the line of fabric barely covering her nipple and Sammy wasn't a little kid anymore, right? He was nearly a teenager and he knew how to use a gun and she was all hips and boobs and hair.

"You know what, just, give me a minute." _Wait._ "How far away is it?"

Her smile brightened, "Just down the road."

He started to turn and stopped again, "I'm sixteen." Because it wasn't worth ditching Sam if it wasn't a sure thing.

"I don't have a problem with that."

Dean caught himself one more time, apologizing as he deposited fifty cents in the machine for Sam's Sprite before sprinting back to the room, immediately going to his bag by the bed and fishing out the condoms while he called to the bathroom where the water was running, "Sammy, you in there?!"

The shower curtain rustled, "What?!"

"You feeling better?"

"Why?!"

He sidled up to the door, pushing it open so they wouldn't have to yell. Sam certainly looked better, not nearly as pale, his legs weren't shaking and he had his bitch face on, so, yeah, better.

"I've got something I gotta do. I'll be back in a few hours."

Sam rolled his eyes, "You mean some_one_. You get my Sprite?"

"It's on the table. Cover for me if dad comes back?"

"Be back before Dad."

Whatever. He dropped the spare key on the table, in case Sam needed to go out for anything, then thought better of it and pocketing the key, so Sam couldn't leave the room.

She was still waiting for him when he got back, leaning against the hood a red car parked just outside their room. "You ready?"

"We'll have to walk and, uh, I should probably get your name."

"I'm Tamara and don't worry. Like I said, it's not far."

* * *

Sam missed their apartment in Ohio. It had cable. He slapped the top of the tube television and gave up, turning it off in favor of a book. He figured he was probably the only kid in his school that dreaded Spring Break. Spring Break meant Dad could take them on hunts, or, more specifically, he could drop Sam off with someone and take Dean on hunts, which was what had gotten him here in the first place. He was just so tired of being left behind, but three days in and he was really wishing he'd agreed to stay at Pastor Jim's.

The door opened and Sam looked over to see his dad coming in. Ha, Dean was in so much shit.

John stopped just inside the door, looking over the salt lines Sam had laid out on the window sill and in front of the door before addressing the obvious absence in the room. "Where's your brother?"

Sam didn't bother looking up from his book, because he already knew the exact expression of impending exasperation that would be on his dad's face. "I dunno, he met someone out in the parking lot and went to have sex. Said he'd be back in a couple of hours."

"He what?!"

"Bastard took the key, too, so I couldn't go out and get snacks. I had to eat his peanut M&amp;M's. If there's a god, he'll end up with gonorrhea."

"Sammy!"

"What?!" And now he did look up, "He's a complete slut and I hate peanut M&amp;M's."

John had suddenly decided to ignore Sam in favor of digging through the bag of weapons by the door and Sam caught on that something more might be going on then just Dean disobeying a direct order, "What?"

John took out a gun, set it on the table, bullets next, the special silver ones. A silver dagger followed, along with a machete.

"Dad, what's going on?"

"Your brother's an idiot is what's going on." He stood up, loading the gun and tucking the various weapons into place while he talked. "The two victims we couldn't find were young men passing through on their way to Chicago. One of them turned up at the morgue. Best I can tell, something drained the life out of him. No known cause of death, otherwise."

"And?"

"And there was an old woman that died a month ago, rumor around town is she was a witch. Rumor also has it her son is a witch. They lived a pretty reclusive life and a few of his friends said they were close, creepy close. He'd do anything for her. I stopped by her grave and it was a botanical massacre."

"And?"

"And we've got two young men missing, at least one dead by supernatural means, a witch that most likely raised another witch from the dead, and your brother steps out of the hotel for five minutes and picks up a random chick? I mean, I get that he's good, but is he really _that_ good?"

Sam ran that the list through his head and came up with, "Shit."

He grabbed for a knife and gun of his own and John raised his eyebrows, "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm coming with you." Because concussion and shoulder injury aside, this was Dean they were talking about.

John considered it for a minute and sighed, "I don't have time to argue with you. Just stay behind me."

* * *

The thing about witches was, they were tricky. If they were powerful enough, they could do anything from mask their appearance with an illusion to keep themselves young indefinitely and they could burn you alive from the inside or toss you across the room with a thought.

The thing about zombies was, there were too many different kinds to nail down one means of dispatching them. So when you ended up with a zombie witch, brought back from the dead by another witch, there was no telling what the hell you were gonna walk in on.

The son, thankfully, was young enough not to know how to really use his power and John had him with a bullet between the eyes before he got out, "Who the hell are you?" Actually, all he really got out was, "Who th…"

They'd have to burn the body later to be sure, but he was down for now. The sounds coming from the basement left very little doubt as to where Dean was and what he was doing. The silencer on the gun made sure they still had the element of surprise and, really, Sam was pretty damn surprised.

It wasn't that he hadn't seen Dean naked, or that he hadn't seen the kind of women his brother had sex with, it was that he had been blissfully unaware of what Dean looked like when he was having sex. He had just enough time to register that Dean was not only on his back on a twin bed, but his hands were tied to the wrought iron frame with a thick corded belt and a woman with dark hair was straddling him, her hips grinding down into his in the kind of lewd way he'd only read about in the magazines Dean hid at the bottom of his duffel. Dean's knees were bent up, his legs tense, muscles rigid and his arms pulled tight at the restraint as he pushed up into her, her fingers playing over the defined plain of his pecs.

Maybe blissfully unaware wasn't the right word. Maybe just unaware. Maybe tragically unaware. Or…

He ran into John's back, bounced off it with a few stumbling feet while his dad took aim and unloaded a silver bullet into the witch's head. From his vantage point, Sam hadn't been able to see her face, but he had seen the smooth, pale skin of her naked back and the soft curve of silky white thighs. The instant the bullet hit home, her head whipped around and the illusion flickered out, leaving a snarling, rotting corpse in its place with grey green, pealing skin, eyes glazed over in white, and at least half a row of missing teeth.

Dean started at the gunshot, his attention wholly on John, "Jesus Christ, Dad, what the hell?!"

John loaded and aimed the gun again and Dean finally looked up. The shriek that filled the room was entirely manly and if Sam ever dared to say otherwise, Dean reserved to right to tell everyone about the Valentine's Day Debacle of 1998.

He bucked up, trying to dislodge her, but her thighs gripped him with unnatural strength as she leered at them and now that Sam was focused on something other then, '_Dean's having sex' _and_ 'oh, dear fucking god, Dean's having sex with a corpse_,' he could see the faint glow coming from them, just a shade brighter around her then his brother.

Thankfully, John didn't seem to be having the same problem as Sam and he came forward with his machete, hacking her head off in a solid swing that sent it rolling off the bed and dark, congealed blood oozed out of the body and onto Dean and the bed. The second shriek was just as manly as the first.

Rushing forward, Sam fumbled the knot a few times before managing to get it undone and Dean pushed and kicked and scrambled off the bed, knocking the corpse to the floor and taking the bed blood soaked bed sheet with him. They all stood silently for several minutes, John glowering at Dean, Dean panting as he held onto Sam with one hand, the other holding a sheet around his waist protectively, and Sam staring at the bed where his brother had been…

"Dean, you… you had sex with a dead woman!"

Dean rounded on Sam, "She was not dead, she was… she was undead."

"No, that's a vampire. She was a zombie – the walking dead. As in, _dead_. A _corpse_. That you had sex with."

Dean narrowed his eyes and John decided that since his glares were going completely unnoticed, they weren't worth the effort. He'd rip the kid a new one later.

"Dean, put on some pants and help me get the bodies upstairs. Sam, take care of the evidence, make sure Dean didn't leave anything behind."

They rushed to follow orders, because the problem with zombies and witches both was you never knew if they were really dead until they were_ really_ dead and no one wanted to give either corpse a chance to reanimate. As Sam wadded up the sheets and wiped down the metal framework, careful to avoid touching any of the various bodily fluids, he silently vowed to never let Dean forget this. Ever.

* * *

**_Present Day_**

Krissy stared, "You said that was gonna be a story about a Wendigo hunt."

Sam looked smug, "I know."

"But…" She glanced at Dean, but he shrugged, working on his second beer, "that had almost nothing to do with Wendigos!"

"Well, yeah, but if I'd said, 'you wanted to hear about the time Dean had sex with a dead chick,' you would have said no."

Dean chimed in with, "I told you not to," which wasn't helping.

Neither was Sam. "Funny how no one ever listens to you."

"Funny how your face is… funny… looking."

"Smooth, Dean, real mature."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Krissy tried to wrap her head around the fact that these were the men who supposedly stopped the apocalypse – twice, that she knew of, possibly more if she believed the rumors. It wasn't working.

"Okay, fine. Are you guys gonna help me hunt this thing, or did you want to, I don't know, tell me about the time Sam had sex with a… a werewolf or whatever?"

Dean perked up, "Well, now that you mention it…"


End file.
